


A temporary suicide

by BakedAppleSauce



Category: True Detective
Genre: Cheating, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, happens before the big 2000's breakup, just pure and utter filth, other than that, this is... oh so very explicit, who needs context
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:54:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23638639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakedAppleSauce/pseuds/BakedAppleSauce
Summary: They stumble backwards in the direction of the mattress. The air is dark and hot, almost unnaturally still despite the fact that Rust cracked all the windows open a while ago and the air conditioning is cranked all the way up. Marty tastes like beer, but not like anything stronger, so. Fair enough.In which Marty is drunk and wants to get laid.
Relationships: Rustin "Rust" Cohle/Martin "Marty" Hart
Comments: 8
Kudos: 66





	A temporary suicide

They stumble backwards in the direction of the mattress. The air is dark and hot, almost unnaturally still despite the fact that Rust cracked all the windows open a while ago and the air conditioning is cranked all the way up. Marty tastes like beer, but not like anything stronger, so. Fair enough. 

He’s clumsy but determined, walking Rust backwards with his shoulders squared, no hesitation to him at all. Like a fucking bull with a target, Rust thinks hazily, not inclined to stop for anything. Marty pushes him down onto the mattress, mutters “get your fuckin’ shoes…” before he trails off, sitting down heavily next to Rust, close enough their shoulders are touching. 

Rust starts unlacing his shoes. His mouth feels bruised already, anticipation shivering up his spine. Next to him, Marty has finished unbuttoning his shirt; busy shrugging it off, before he pulls his T-shirt over his head. He feels like he’s burning up where their skin is touching, hot like the sun. Rust loses his shoes and socks, then goes for his belt; but as soon as he’s started opening his fly, Marty’s hand is suddenly there, shoving inside. 

“Ain’t gonna make this go any fuckin’ faster, man-” Rust says, suddenly breathless, and Marty mutters “shut the fuck up” and gropes his dick, rubbing at him over the threadbare material of Rust’s boxers.

“Oh,” Rust breathes. _“Fuck-”_

Marty’s not being gentle about it, but not _too_ rough either. Rust can feel his leg tip to the side, press up against Marty’s thigh. Marty’s nosing at his neck again, sucking at the skin, scraping with his teeth a bit. His free arm has wrapped itself all the way around Rust’s waist, clutching at the wifebeater he’s still wearing hard enough to almost rip the fabric apart. It’s possessive, borderline mean, like he’s trying to stake his claim, daring Rust to do something about it.

“How,” Rust manages and then he has to try again, because Marty is still working on his dick and he can’t seem to _think,_ everything coated with the prospect of sex. “How’d you want it?”

“Ohhhh,” Marty says, mocking, face still buried against his neck, gust of breath against his skin making Rust shiver. “Get to have an opinion on this, huh?”

“What can I say,” Rust says, breath hitching in his throat when Marty pulls his hand away and out, just to push it flat against Rust’s stomach, fingers fanning out, and pushing it slowly back down again, this time into Rust’s boxers. “Always seem to have one regardless. Just givin’ you a head start.”

“Is that right,” Marty murmurs, but he’s clearly not listening. 

Rust manages to stay still and let him work at his dick for a full five seconds before he can’t stand it anymore and starts shoving pants and underwear down with shaking hands. Marty doesn’t even move his own hand out of the way, like he’s glued to Rust’s dick or something, pulling at him slow and a bit unsteady. It makes something hitch inside Rust’s chest, something wild and helpless at the same time. He can feel himself tip backwards, like the arousal pooling low in his stomach is an anchor that’s pulling him down onto the mattress. 

They fuck like that, too – Rust staring up at him, pillow stuffed under the small of his back, one leg hooked over the crook of Marty’s arm. They’re both drenched with sweat in no time. Rust can feel it collect in the dip between his collarbones, his hairline, at the back of his knees. Marty’s taking it slow, but he’s making it count. _Fuck,_ Rust thinks, clawing at Marty’s back, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, oh, _fuck._ God. It’s too good. He can’t do this. Everything’s glowing, it’s too much. 

Marty’s panting – deep, straining breaths, like he’s exercising or something. As always (and it is fucking weird to think about it like this, _as always,_ like this is normal, like it’s something they just get to do, like it’s _theirs)_ he’s sticking with a rhythm, keeping it steady, because he’s an _asshole,_ because he figured out what works best early on, before Rust could reign it in, before he managed to keep a lid on it, and now he just keeps doing it, knowledge making him so smug it would be unbearable if it didn’t feel so fucking good. 

As always, Rust thought he’d be able to keep it down at first, not give Marty the satisfaction, not immediately at least, make him work for it a little, but as always – that was just never gonna happen. Marty’s scarily patient, which was unexpected, because he just _isn’t_ usually; except for when he’s got his dick buried inside Rust apparently, that seems to be the exception to the fucking rule. Fucks into him steady as clockwork each and every time, taking him apart piece by piece, winding him tighter and tighter. 

Rust got his free leg practically wrapped around Marty’s waist, muscles tense with strain, trying to pull him even closer, anytime Marty snaps his hips forward with a grunt, mindless and greedy. He’s a hissing, breathless mess by now, muttering curses into the damp skin of Marty’s shoulder. 

“Ffffuck,” he pants, and, _“jesus”_ and “oh, _fuck,_ man, c'mon-” and worst of all, _“Marty-”_

“Yeah,” Marty says at that, because he’s a narcissistic asshole who likes hearing his own name, “That’s it, baby. You like that? That feel good? Huh?" 

Rust bucks up from the mattress and kisses him then, because he can’t fucking listen to this, but he also can’t possibly _answer,_ so he bites at Marty’s lower lip instead. Marty groans, kissing him back immediately, hot tongue working itself into Rust’s pliable mouth and _this_ is better, this almost makes everything bearable. 

Rust knows he’s shaking – barely noticeable but still, faint tremor he can’t do anything about, wouldn’t know how to stop if he had to, running through him at the sensation of being fucked. He feels like a rock being worked on by the tides, slowly eroding, layer by agonizing layer. Knows he’s gonna come from this at some point, dick a twitching, swollen mess already – they _both_ know it, which makes it better and worse at the same time. If Marty manages to keep this up for long enough, Rust is gonna lose it sooner rather than later, because he’s fucking _easy_ for this when he’s never been easy for anything or anybody in his _life._

Except… Marty suddenly stops. Rust doesn’t even understand what’s happening at first, whole body curving towards him in confusion. Maybe he makes a noise, maybe it’s just in his head, he’s not sure. Marty kisses him in response, deep and thorough, distracting him from the fact that he’s _pulling out,_ motherfucker, he’s going to _stop,_ he can’t-

"What, what are you-” Rust croaks, directly against his mouth, because Marty is still pressing kisses against his cheek, chin, into whatever bit of skin he can reach. “Fuck, what’re you-" 

"Turn over,” Marty murmurs back, hot breath ghosting over Rust’s upper lip, making him shiver. “Turn around, c'mon, just-" 

Rust is already moving, even as everything in his head wants to tell Marty to fuck the _fuck_ off, scrambling onto his hands and knees. He kicks Marty’s thigh in the process, hard too, at least by the feel of it, but Marty doesn’t seem to mind, doesn’t react at all. Rust expects him to shove his dick back inside again, put it back where it fucking was; lets his head hang low in anticipation.

Then Marty’s hands are on his ass, fingers digging in, prying him apart and _then,_ unbearably gentle and hot, there’s Marty’s tongue, lapping at his hole. Rust is caught so off guard he can’t stop himself from moaning, a low, drawn-out noise that sounds like it was punched out of him.

Marty hums at that, sounding satisfied, and does it again. And again. And _again._ He adds more pressure, tongue slippery wet, mindless of the lube, mindless of _everything_. Rust feels it running through him like something molten and red-white-hot, entire spine feeling like it’s liquefying, shivery arousal collecting at the base of his dick. 

Then Marty pushes his tongue inside, no fucking resistance there _at all,_ because Rust is already fucked open, loose and waiting for it. 

"Fuck,” he chokes out. “Oh God, _fuck-"_

He can feel his arms buckle, listing unsteadily for a long second before he’s down on his elbows. It’s unbearable and so, _so_ good at the same time, blinding with pleasure. He’s moving already, rolling his hips into it, can’t even help himself. 

"Fuck you,” he manages, and then he groans, and _then_ he has to bury his hands in his own hair and make fists, pulling at the strands until it hurts, because he can’t breathe – Marty is fucking him with his tongue, working him open, unbearably soft and unforgiving at the same time, and Rust can’t _breathe._

He’s arching his back, he knows, making low, hurt animal sounds, mattress growing damp underneath his panting mouth. One of Marty’s hands drops down to his thigh, grabbing at it, like he has to hold him still, even though Rust couldn’t move if he tried, thumb digging into the sensitive inside of his leg. Marty’s other hand is still holding him open for better access. 

“M-Marty,” Rust manages, rocking back against him, fucking _himself_ on that tongue and it’s too much and barely enough at the same time. _“Fuck-"_

"Yeah, you like that,” Marty mutters behind him, triumphant, voice so hoarse it’s barely even recognizable. “Look at you, baby, you’re fuckin’ _shaking_ for me-”

He’s not wrong. 

Rust _is_ shaking, and Marty just… keeps on going and going and _going_ , until Rust is so turned on he can’t even think anymore, Marty working at him until Rust’s dick feels like it’s throbbing between his legs, hard like fucking iron. He wants to touch himself but can’t, because he can’t bring himself to let go of his own hair for some reason, fingers spasming, holding on tight. 

It goes on like this for a long time. 

Marty’s merciless, drawing it out for as long as he can, eating him out until Rust feels delirious with it, breathing gone harsh and desperate. 

“Fuckin’ look at that,” Marty murmurs, finally, and then he’s touching Rust’s over-sensitized hole with what feels like his thumb, circling the rim, and Rust desperately clenches down around nothing, and then _something,_ because Marty starts pushing it inside, doesn’t stop till the last knuckle. Rust twitches violently, sensation trembling through him, and then Maty puts his mouth on him again, licks around the intrusion, tongue flickering against the sensitive flesh. 

Rust presses his own head down, face against the mattress, and groans with his mouth hanging open, a deep, guttural sound. 

Then Marty’s thumb is gone again, _fuck,_ and Marty’s fingers are digging into his ass once more, spreading him wide, holding him open. There’s blunt pressure – Marty’s dick, Rust realizes, feeling dazed, rush of anticipation going through him at the same time, Marty’s going to- _finally-_

When he sinks back inside, slow but inexorable, not stopping once, Rust feels like howling. His back curves into it immediately, automatically, legs sliding just the tiniest bit further apart. The angle is less intimate but more intense, always has been; it’s a lot easier to find the right spot as well, at least as far as Rust is concerned, and Marty _knows._

“Tell me where,” Marty rasps, except it only takes him four tries and when his dick does brush against the right spot, Rust doesn’t need to tell him _anything,_ because he moans, startled, whole body moving into it, awash with pleasure at the sensation. 

“Oh, yeah, baby,” Marty murmurs promptly. “There we go." 

He starts up his initial rhythm again, steady and sure like the tide, in and out, just the right side of too much. Rust moans shamelessly, because he can’t bring himself to care about anything anymore, moving with him easily. He doesn’t last long after that, feels like he’s been on edge for something close to an eternity; and when Marty finally takes pity on him and fumbles for his dick again, rhythm faltering a bit in the process, but not stopping, never stopping, Rust inhales sharply, shocked at the contact, and then he topples over the edge, he’s drowning, he’s- oh. 

_Fuck._

He’s coming in long, desperate waves, orgasm washing over him, pulling him under; barely even registers when Marty suddenly grabs him by the hips, fingers splayed wide, digging in, and then he’s pulling Rust back onto his dick, two, three, four times, and it’s almost too much stimulation, but it doesn’t matter anyway, because Marty’s coming too. Rust can feel him, dick hot and pulsing, buried as deep inside as possible. 

"Fuckin’… _Christ,”_ Marty practically whines through his teeth. “Jesus-" 

He rides it out with a death grip on Rust’s hips, not letting go until long after he seems to be good and done. 

Rust collapses onto the mattress after, feeling boneless and half-delirious with heat and the aftermath. Can feel Marty collapse beside him, a graceless sprawl, panting like he’s just ran a marathon. 

"So?” he says, when he catches Rust looking. “What’s the verdict? Was that worth it or nah?" 

"Nahhh,” Rust mutters, almost wishes it wasn’t a lie. “Anyway, the fuck do you care?" 

Marty snorts, a mixture of disbelief and amusement, post-orgasm haze working its magic on his mood. When he gets up to throw the condom in the trash, Rust expects him to start hunting for his clothes, but he doesn’t. Returns with a glass of lukewarm tap water instead, puts it carefully on the ground next to Rust’s head. Then he flops back onto the mattress, still naked, sweat starting to stickily dry on his skin. 

It’s obvious he’s planning to fall asleep here. Rust blinks at him, wondering what he’s going to tell Maggie tomorrow. Some version of the truth, probably – _crashed at Rust’s place, had something we had to finish, baby, you know how it is…_ Rust wouldn’t even have to lie if she asked him for confirmation. Isn’t sure whether he appreciates that detail or not. 

Right next to him Marty, predictably, has fallen asleep. 

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this gifset over on tumblr,](https://foundcarcosa.tumblr.com/post/113494813250) which is the start of this whole thing, I suppose. I originally posted this on tumblr too, but the stickler in me really likes having everything in one place, so... here we are.


End file.
